Surprise
by Jade Sabre
Summary: Hawke decides to throw Fenris a surprise birthday party. Shenanigans ensue. A gentle homage to the works of LoquaciousQuark, featuring her Eppie Hawke.
1. Chapter 1

**Surprise**

a [parody] [satire] gentle homage to the works of LoquaciousQuark

on the [belated] occasion of her birthday

by Jade Sabre

with special thanks to Jilly and Nista for lore and lookings-over

* * *

"We're throwing Fenris a birthday party."

Hawke's proclamation was met with about the reactions she expected: Merrill and Isabela both clapped their hands, while Varric and Anders looked a bit more skeptical.

"_That's_ why you called us here?" Anders said. "I thought you'd devised a plan for mage freedom that he wouldn't like."

"She'd hardly have invited me if that were the case," Sebastian said. "Though I _did_ think a clandestine meeting in Varric's chambers would be for a…more serious matter."

"Surprise birthday parties are _quite_ serious, thank you," Hawke said, affronted.

"Of course they are," Aveline said, though Anders looked as though he would beg to differ. "But why now?"

"Well, it must be Fenris's birthday, mustn't it?" Merrill said.

"Ah," Hawke said, "you see, we were wandering around the Hightown market last week, and…"

_They were on their way to inform Hubert of the situation at the Bone Pit, arguing about the best way to break the news that all the workers were dead because no one had bothered to survey the mine for dragon eggs. _

_ "It's not the sort of business expense you expect, no, but _someone _should have noticed them," Hawke was saying, but she lost her train of thought upon reaching the market. "Oh, a new novelty booth! I wonder if they'll have more pockets for my pack."_

_ "I don't think that's how packs work," Fenris told her, but she ignored him—_he _wasn't in charge of the pack, after all—and went to stand next to a little girl poking at something in a cage. _

_ "Mummy!" cried the little girl. "Mummy, look at the nug! I want the nug!"_

_ Her mother, well-dressed if not noble, busy haggling with the clothing merchant at the next booth, said, "Maybe for your birthday."_

_ "What a terrible birthday present," Hawke muttered, expecting Fenris to chuckle, but none came._

_ The dwarf running the booth—well, he didn't quite bend down, as the girl was as tall as he, but he leaned forward and said, with a toothy smile, "You know they talk, right?"_

_ "They do not," the little girl said, finally succeeding in giving the nug a little head scratch through the bars._

_ "Sure they do," he said, his smile fixed on his face. _

_ Suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, a high-pitched, squeaky voice said, "I can too! And I love you!"_

_ "MUMMY," the little girl shrieked. "Mummy, I want a talking nug!"_

_ "There's no such thing!" her mother said, draping fabric over her arm._

_ "Shame on you!" the nug squeaked._

_ The girl balled her hands into fists and stomped the ground. "Mummy I want a talking nug! I want a talking nug! I want a talking nug and I WANT IT NOW!"_

"…and her mother had to leave the fabric and drag her back along the cobblestones," Hawke said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "Classic."

"Yes," Varric said, "the old talking nug trick. Hilarious. What does that have to do with Fenris's birthday?"

"Hm? Oh," Hawke said. "He asked me what an appropriate birthday present would be, and I found out he's never had a birthday party, that he can remember at least. So we're going to throw him one."

She gave them a stern look, to impress upon them the importance of the situation, but then she remembered the child screaming for a nug again and felt her expression start to crack. To cover it, she said, "So, I thought we'd do this in two teams, one to set everything up, the other to keep Fenris away from the house until everything's ready."

"Does he spend that much time there?" Anders said, with a look that suggested he didn't actually want to know the answer.

"No," Hawke said, "well, sometimes, but he's not there all the time, and he occasionally drops by unexpectedly, and we can't have that. So we'll take him on patrol and then I'll invite him over for a late-night snack—"

"I'm _sure_ you don't need us for that, sweet thing," Isabela said, but Hawke ignored her.

"Now. Varric, you're a master entertainer; would you mind being the party coordinator?"

"Is this party going to be big enough to require coordination?"  
"Great," Hawke said, as Varric sighed and settled back into his chair. "Merrill, I thought you might be good for decorations?"

She clapped her hands again. "Oh, but what should the theme be? Butterflies? Lyrium? Swords? Is he allergic to anything? I only ask because whenever I show him flowers he wrinkles his nose—"

"I'm sure whatever you come up with will be lovely," Hawke said, pleased that at least _some_one was excited about her plan. "And Aveline and Donnic, if you wouldn't mind making the food—"

"Is this a dinner party?" Donnic asked. "Because our last dinner party—"

"It wasn't your fault, dear," Aveline soothed, placing a hand over her husband's.

"Oh, what happened?" Isabela asked.

"Donnic overestimated how much brandy a plum pudding flambé needs," Aveline said.

"I set half the guests' hair on fire," he said. "Sergeant Pucet's eyebrows still haven't grown back."

"See? You'll be the perfect cooks," Hawke said.

"Were you listening? I just said—"

"That you have plenty of practice being domestic," Hawke said happily. Donnic looked less than pleased, and even Aveline was wincing. "Besides, you've had me over for dinner, and it was delicious."

"But Hawke," she said, "everyone knows that Anders is the best baker—"

"I am _not_," Anders said, his eyes just the faintest shade of blue, "making a birthday cake for _that elf_."

"Fine," Hawke said, as miffed as Aveline looked annoyed. Anders's eyes settled into their normal hazel, at least until she continued, "You can come with us as part of the distraction."

Anders huffed and hunched his shoulders, but some part of him must have acknowledged the justice of the solution, because he didn't say anything. Hawke gifted him with a patient smile that seemed to perk him up, then turned her attention to the only member of her party with actually blue eyes. "Sebastian?"

The exiled prince stroked his chin, baby blues gazing at the ceiling. At last he said, "I could provide musical entertainment?"

Isabela laughed. "Don't tell me you're going to chant at us all evening," she said. "Surely in your wild days you learned more than _that_."

"I know other songs," he said, unperturbed.

"Drinking songs?" Isabela leaned forward. "_Dirty_ drinking songs?"

"Yes, Isabela," he said, sighing with the barest hint of a smile, "I know dirty drinking songs."

"Oh well then." She settled back in her seat. "Hawke, Sebastian's going to sing for us."

"Excellent!" Hawke hadn't thought about music, nor was she sure she'd ever heard Sebastian sing, but he was a member of the Chantry and it had the word "chant" in its name and Elthina probably wouldn't like him as much if he _couldn't _sing, right? Right. She beamed at him (which seemed to ruffle Anders's feathers, ah well). "And Isabela, you'll come with us?"

"Of course," said the pirate. "We all know how good I am at distractions. Though, again, I'm not sure you need _all_ of us—"

"Then it's settled!" Hawke was pleased, visions of fairy lights and Fenris's surprised expression dancing in her head. "So, tomorrow?"

"Donnic's on patrol tomorrow night," Aveline said, her expression as placid as her husband's during a game of Wicked Grace. "What about next week?"

"Can't," Varric said. "It's the premier of my new book. Have to sign autographs. A fortnight?"

"Can't," Anders said, "I've got—" he looked sideways at Sebastian "—mage. Things."

"And Summerday's coming up," Sebastian said, returning the sideways look, "and the Grand Cleric's given me many tasks to complete—perhaps after the feast?"

He at least had the grace to look apologetic. "Fine," Hawke said, no longer pleased, "next month, then? Is the third _available_ for everyone?"

Everyone nodded, more or less guiltily, except for Isabela, who crossed her arms and said, "You never know which way the breeze will be blowing," which was as good as Hawke knew she was going to get. She also knew that no matter which way the breeze had been blowing, Isabela had come back with the qunari book; and in any case she was promising a party, and Isabela could _never_ resist a good party.

"Then it's settled!" she declared. "You all have a month to come up with the _best birthday party ever_, gifts included."

"All right, all right," Isabela said. "Now, can we please go downstairs and get to the drinking? The drinking is my favorite part."

Hawke sighed and nodded, barely stepping aside in time for the stampede to the door. When the dust cleared, she found herself alone with Varric, who still sat at in his chair, parchment and a quill suddenly at his fingertips. She raised an eyebrow at him as he dipped the quill in the ink and looked up at her.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll make it sound better than it did."

"You're his friends too," she said. "He's never had a birthday party that he can remember."

"Neither have most of us," Varric pointed out. "Dwarves don't even celebrate birthdays. I'm just going along because it's important to you."

Hawke paused, thinking of Isabela sold to marriage as a girl, of Anders wistfully mentioning his mother, of childhoods ended before the children were grown. Aveline probably considered herself too mature for such things, and who knew if Chantry brothers were allowed that sort of individual celebration. Did the Dalish celebrate birthdays?

"I just want to do something nice," Hawke said.

"I know," Varric said.

"It's not just because we're—"

"I know!"

"Once we see how this one goes, I'll do one for everyone else!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself." Varric shook his head, but the amused grin on his face strengthened her resolve.

"Thank you, Varric," she said, brightening. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go ask Merrill about Dalish coming-of-age rituals."

His grin fixed itself a bit too rigidly, but Hawke was already leaving, visions of fairy lights finally back on track.

* * *

Fenris spent the evening in his mansion, too cheap to light more than a single candle to chase away the darkness (let alone a fire to chase the chill), a bottle of wine his only comfort.

* * *

Keeping a secret for an entire month was _hard_, almost as hard as fighting the Arishok had been, except when she'd been fighting the Arishok she'd at least known she had Fenris's support, whereas now the most important person in her life was _utterly ignorant of her struggles_. More than once she was certain she'd given everything away, accidentally mentioning Merrill's bouquet practices or Sebastian's singing, but Fenris seemed to remain oblivious.

"Hawke, he's never had a birthday party before," Aveline pointed out as Hawke paced in her office, wailing that she'd been too obvious in asking Fenris what his favorite flavor of cake was.

Hawke paused mid-step. "So?"

"So, even if you'd asked, 'Fenris, what kind of birthday cake would you like?' he probably still wouldn't guess what you were up to," she said patiently.

Hawke considered this.

"Right," Aveline said, "now, I've a Darktown patrol for you. The Knight-Commander wants to know how mages are sneaking out of the city."

"That patrol won't last very long," Hawke said. "I'll just ask Anders, and then we'll tell Meredith the opposite."

Aveline sighed, as she so often did when they talked. "Then since it's a pointless patrol, you can make it last as long as necessary."

"Right! Right. What time do you think you'll be ready?"

"Not before eight," Aveline said. "Dinner shouldn't take too long, but Donnic wants to be sure the cake has time to bake. I _told_ him we could make it earlier in the day, but he wants it to be…"

"What?" Hawke asked, not missing the slight wince of exasperation blossoming on Aveline's face.

"'Warm and gooey,'" she said, the wince a full-fledged scowl. "Honestly, his cakes are fine. It's not like Fenris has ever had one of Anders's cakes."

"I'm not sure _I've_ ever had one of Anders's cakes, come to think of it," Hawke said. "How does Donnic know what they're like?" Aveline suddenly became very interested in the shelf of books behind her. Hawke narrowed her eyes. "Did you have a party without me?"

"No!" Aveline said, her armor clanging as she crossed her arms. "Look, do you remember the cake at our wedding?"

Hawke thought for a moment. She remembered Aveline's dress, the look on Donnic's face as he saw his wife-to-be coming down the aisle, Isabela and Anders lurking in the back of the chapel, Fenris sitting on the groom's side while she sat on the bride's, oceans of autumn light between them. She remembered Sebastian witnessing, dressed in Chantry robes, Merrill sending twinkling mage lights over the couple despite the templar or two in attendance; she remembered the smile on Aveline's face, the dancing, the laughter as she and her new husband ran out the doors to everyone's cheers—

"Hawke?" Aveline said. "Are you all right?"

Hawke blinked furiously and sniffed. "It was just such a _lovely_ wedding," she sighed.

Aveline smiled, genuine and sweet. "It was, wasn't it?" She leaned against the shelves as Hawke leaned against the desk, both smiling at memories unseen.

After another minute or two, Hawke said, "You asked me something."

"Hm? Oh, yes. Do you remember the cake?"

Hawke though very carefully about the food, and the dancing, and the wine, and Varric's drunken toast in the form of the Lay of the Guard Captain—"No," she said, frowning a little.

"Exactly. It was a little cake and only half the guests got even a crumb," Aveline said. "It was a good cake—I'd thought so, and even Donnic approved. But then after we came back from our honeymoon, Anders showed up on our doorstep with this—" She stopped, gesturing broadly.

"Cake?" Hawke supplied.

"It was more than a cake," she said. "It was a work of art. Little sugar marigolds and buttercream icing with just a hint of cinnamon; moist, fluffy white cake with a thin raspberry filling…"

Hawke blinked as Aveline returned to wistful reverie. "_Anders_ made it for you?"

Aveline shrugged. "Didn't say much, just that he thought we deserved better than we'd had, and to please accept this belated gift. And then he left."

"Well, that was kind of him," Hawke said. "I can't help but notice you didn't share."

"It was a gift for us," Aveline said defensively. "Don't you have a patrol to do?"

"Fine, fine," Hawke said. "Merrill's already working on decorations, and I've told Orana and Bodahn to expect you. We'll be back at eight, and you'd better be ready."

"We will be. Hawke," Aveline said, as Hawke turned for the door, "be careful."

Hawke knew better, but it didn't stop her from looking back and saying, "How dangerous can it be?"

She turned back and smacked her head on the doorframe. It stung, but a quick blast of healing magic eased the worst of the pain. "I'm all right!" she announced, reorienting herself to go _through_ the door, ignoring Aveline's face, carefully hidden as it was behind a despairing hand. "See you tonight!"

* * *

"Hawke," Fenris said for the fourth or fifth time, "are you sure you're well enough to be on patrol?"

"I just bumped my head, Fenris," she answered, for the fourth or fifth time. "It's just a little bruise."

"I could fix that for you—"

"No, that's quite all right," she said, cutting Anders's offer short. "It's just a slight bruise—not even a black eye!—and I am _fine_," she said, emphasizing her point with a pointed glare in Fenris's direction.

He glared right back. "Your capacity for minor injuries—"

"Amazes us all, yes, but we can't _all_ be graceful, now can we?" Isabela purred, slinking in circles around the both of them. "You're so cute when you're protective."

"_Isabela_," Hawke protested, while Fenris shriveled up with embarrassment and Anders turned green, which was a nice change from blue, aside from the possibility of vomit. (Well. He'd vomited after particularly difficult Justice takeovers, but everyone politely looked the other way when it happened. No one had known him when he'd first become possessed; it wasn't quite fair to say "I told you so" when it was far too late to make a difference.)

"Are you not supposed to be scouting our path for us?" Fenris asked, though the edge in his voice was a bit, well, shrivel-y.

"I have been," Isabela said. "I came back to tell you that all the torches down that alley are unlit."

Hawke squinted in the direction Isabela waved her arm. Her pack was heavy on her back, and she _really _didn't want to have to walk so far if it would only end in familiar territory. "Is that the alley that leads to your clinic, Anders?"

"No," he said. "It's the one that leads to those stairs, where you fought the old guard captain."

"Are you sure it's not the alley that leads to the smuggling tunnels?"

"No, that's the alley that leads to the sewers. This one leads to the stairs."

"Wait," she said. "Where are we right now?"

Anders sighed. "We've just come from the elevator up to Lowtown."

Hawke studied the crest on the dilapidated wall across from her, trying to retrace their steps in her mind, shifting her pack again. "Maybe you ought to listen to Anders," Isabela said. "He does live here."

"I lived…in Lowtown," Hawke said.

"We're in Darktown."

"Close enough!" she said. "This is the part of Darktown that just dead-ends into the sewer?"

"If we turn that way, yes," Anders said. "We're at the opposite end from my clinic, in the darkest, most deserted part of Darktown, and someone's extinguished the torches leading to the stairs."

"Which lead to that little inexplicable area from which we can't escape without going back up the stairs," Hawke said slowly, feeling out the area.

"Yes."

"So it's a trap."

"Yes," Fenris said.

"It's always a trap, when we end up back here," she said.

"Generally speaking," Anders said.

She sighed. "Well, at least we'll have a story for Aveline," she said. "What're the chances of us seeing them before they see us?"

"Given everyone's propensity for dropping down from the ceiling?" Isabela said dryly.

"Do we have time for this?" Anders asked, glancing at Fenris, who scowled.

Hawke scowled too. Trust Anders to try to ruin the surprise at the last minute. "Of course we do," she said, though really she wasn't sure; usually it was the guard patrol's responsibility to call the hours of the watch, but they _were_ the guard, and it wasn't like they could see the sun to guesstimate. Oh well. Orana was an expert at keeping dinner warm long after the mistress was expected home, and Donnic's cake would probably be fine. "So. Strategy?"

"Since when do we bother with those?" Isabela asked. "Fenris can charge across the battlefield, you and Anders can rain fire and ice, and I'll skulk around and surprise them. No sweat." She paused. "Well, a _little_ sweat wouldn't hurt."

"Don't want to get all stinky," Anders said, glancing at Hawke, who scowled at him again. Where was the justice in ruining surprise parties?

Fenris was looking between them with a furrowed brow. Oh no. "No frowns," she said. "We'll be in and out and home for dinner with time to spare."

* * *

At first, she'd thought that for once she'd been telling the truth. Isabela had disappeared, Fenris had taken point, and she and Anders had followed behind, down the narrow corridor, turning the corner to take the stairs. It had indeed been dark, and Anders had stayed above to keep the high ground. As she and Fenris had approached the bottom of the stairs she'd had the bright idea to undo the darkness with just a little stream of fire from her staff. She hadn't spoken her intent, merely lifted her staff and nudged Fenris out of the way, leaned around the corner, cast the spell—

And just as soon as the fire started it stopped and before Hawke could react she felt the too-familiar sweep of a templar cleanse slicing through her magic, the numbness of having her constant sixth sense suddenly taken. She heard a choked gasp from behind, as though the wind had been knocked from Anders; Fenris was already gone to the far corner, the faint glint of light off his slashing sword the only clue to his whereabouts. She knew she had a minute, maybe two, until her magic returned, and shifted her grip on her staff in order to use the serrated blade Fenris had insisted she have, what with all the templar tension. She looked behind, trying to see Anders, but she was too far down the stairs, and when she turned around two heavily-armored adversaries were hitting the ground running. _How_ they dropped in all that armor—she had two options, up the stairs or into her attackers, and so she tightened her grip and ran right back at them, aiming her staff like a javelin while letting out a yell.

The distraction worked, at least enough to keep them from realizing her aim; she ducked under the second's swing of a sword and her blade sank deep into the first's weak joint by his groin, blood spurting onto her robes—oh _shit_, she thought, and then she remembered she'd saved her party clothes for the actual party, but she didn't have a plan for changing into them before the party started, and also her blade was _too_ deep, taking her with it as the first fighter sank to his knees, howling with pain. She released her grip on her staff and spent half a second trying to deflect the second fighter with her mind—but the mana still wasn't there, and so she slid to the side as he came at her again, barely missing his follow-up attempt to bash her with his shield. His _unmarked_ shield—were templars working with mercenaries?

"This was supposed to be a _simple_ patrol," she muttered, sliding around again—at least now _he_ had his back to the stairs, and she at least could run around the open area if need be, but this meant her back was unprotected, and a quick glimpse told her Fenris was still at the other end. If anyone else dropped on her—she tried to get back to her staff, but the fighter used the narrow space to his advantage, broadening his stance, daring her to come forward. She had no weapon—aside from what Fenris called her unusually thick skull, but that would have no chance against the thick metal of a shield—

The idea barely struck her before she was unslinging her heavy pack from her back and whirling it around with all her might, smashing it into the man's helmet. The resulting crash hurt _her_ ears, let alone the man inside the thing, and as he staggered she released her pack and ran for her staff, tugging it out of the dead man's groin, and hoping desperately for _some_ thread of magic, but still none came. She heard the continued sound of steel-on-steel from Fenris's side of the room, but she'd be of no use if she ran into the fray. So she took to the stairs, hoping to check on Anders and have a good view of the battle, wondering what in the _hell_ Isabela was waiting for—and ran straight into the arms of six more fighters, all armored, all armed, and one of them with a sword to a slumped Anders's neck.

"So sorry," she babbled, nearly tripping over her feet as she tried to backpedal—and if Fenris saw her trying to run _backwards_ down the stairs he'd have her head—but the fighter with the shiniest armor swung his sword in an arc and she felt another wave of templar suppression steal her breath. She twirled her staff and tried a feint, but it clattered off a shield and another fighter grabbed her arms, pulling them behind her back. She yelled and kicked back, throwing her head back and cracking against his helmet—it had looked much easier when Isabela did it—but a fourth fighter punched her in the stomach, and even as the third dropped her she dropped to her knees, wheezing, willing herself to get up, trying to shake the stars from her eyes.

"Hawke?" She half-turned her head and saw Fenris at the foot of the stairs, holding her pack in one hand and his sword in the other as he started his climb. "What are you carrying that's—"

He reached the halfway point and stopped, his eyes narrowing as he took in the half-circle of warriors, Anders unconscious, Hawke on her knees. She tried to think of a way to make it look better than it was. "Only—six," she said, her gut still aching. "Should be—easy, right?"

"Easy," came a voice from within the shiniest suit of armor, appropriately cold and sneering. In a shifting of metal he stood behind Hawke, his sword burning against her neck. "Come now, elf, show us how it's done."

She watched Fenris calculate, searching for a way to defeat as many as possible before one of them slit Hawke's throat—though they hadn't killed Anders, so perhaps they wanted them alive. She was keenly aware of the pain in her neck—no, that wasn't the chill of the steel; it actually _burned_, and if Fenris took too much longer—and where the _hell_ was Isabela?

"And if I surrender?" Fenris said, which was exactly _not_ what she was expecting. She tried to communicate this with her expression—tried to reach for her mana, but both attempts were apparently futile.

"You'd be willing to?" asked the voice above her head. No templar she recognized, and of course he wasn't wearing any official arms to give any clue to his position. A rogue templar, then?

"Yes," Fenris said, "if you let her go."

Hawke nearly groaned aloud. _Now_ he was going to go all noble and sacrificial? "Fenris—" she said, but he refused to look at her as he slowly took the next few stairs.

"Not possible, I'm afraid," the templar said, and _again_ Hawke felt the wave of suppression, leaving her knees shaking. He had to be incredibly powerful to manage it so often, or have access to an incredible amount of lyrium, and surely Meredith wouldn't want to bring down the Champion of Kirkwall like this. "But I'll take the three of you, if you don't mind."

"Where?" Hawke asked. "Because this little rendez-vous hasn't convinced me that we—" The pressure from the sword stopped her speech.

"Your sword," the templar said, "or the lady loses her pretty tongue."

Hawke stuck her tongue out reflexively, trying to ignore the taste of burning as Fenris took the last few steps, laid his sword at the templar's feet. He had a plan. She knew he had a plan, that his bowed head, his _submission_, was all an act. She didn't know what the plan was, but she knew he had one, and that it was probably a good one—much better than hers, hopefully. She tried for a hopeless expression, just in case.

"Very good," the templar said. "Now—"

Fenris swung Hawke's pack into the templar's shoulder, jarring the sword so it bit into Hawke's neck—and she would lecture him for that later—but he _did_ drop it, and Fenris was already moving, phasing his arm through the nearest fighter's chest. The dying man's scream of agony pierced through Hawke's head as she dropped to her knees, this time to grab her staff from his dead hands while pressing her other hand against the blood seeping from her neck. Not bleeding fast enough to be of immediate concern, she'd give him credit for that, though the sudden splash of hot blood on her face made less sense, as did the sight of an arm thudding to the ground without an accompanying body. She blinked the blood away, her hand closing around her staff, and realized she _knew_ that arm, lying lifelessly in the dirt, knew every line of lyrium etched into it.

She looked up and saw Fenris swaying, unbalanced by the lack of—oh _Maker_, that was a lot of blood, and she stretched out her staff, willing as she had always willed—she was damnably strong-willed, could do anything she'd put her mind to, and yet the healing magic _would not come_. His tanned face was already paling, his eyes wide even as he tried to swing a punch with his off hand, but—

"_Idiot_," the templar hissed to the fighter with the bloodied sword, picking up his own as he stepped over Hawke and Fenris's arm. She instinctively grabbed it, unwieldy though it was, the forearm and hand and fingers flopping every which way. "He was supposed to be intact."

"It wasn't his head," was the other's timid reply as the templar called holy fire to his sword and smashed it into the bleeding stump. Fenris's lyrium lit white and he screamed and Hawke saw a red apart from the blood, clambered to her feet and charged with the blade of her staff. She made far too much noise, and the templar swung his sword and smacked her temple with the flat of his burning blade and she saw—nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

She woke in the near-dark, a faint flicker of far-away light casting shadows of cage bars across her face. She reached for her magic, but it was still silent; she could have been out for minutes or for hours, and hoped for the former. Other than that, she could barely make out the dirt by her nose, and so she braced herself in order to sit up, but something under her hand was surprisingly squishy—

Oh, _Maker_, she was still holding onto—she froze, swallowing back bile, released her death grip on Fenris's dead arm in order to push against the ground. She saw more shadows, bars and darker shapes, and so she called, quietly, "Hello?"

"Hawke," Anders said from somewhere to her left. She looked, and saw that her narrow cage seem to fit neatly into a corner, against the wall farthest from the light; the mass of shadow that seemed to be Anders were one in a series of cages on a wall that stretched into the flickering: a torch around the corner, she guessed. Judging by the occasional wooden post in the dirt walls, they were somewhere underground (_dug by humans_, Varric said, which didn't help much). "How are you?"

"All right," she said, wincing as she touched the side of her head. That bruise was going to be a bit more noticeable. She looked to the right, saw another long row of cells, another mass of shadow, and said, "Fenris?"

"I don't think he's awake," Anders said. "He hasn't moved—"

Hawke stopped listening, holding her breath as she stared at the shadow of broken elf, clenching her teeth, willing him to move. The templar had been smart enough to cauterize the wound, so the blood loss couldn't have been _too _severe, and no infection could've killed him—no, he was fine. Not fine, couldn't be fine, but _Maker_ he had to at least be _alive_; he wouldn't go down to a templar, not just because she was too stupid not to walk straight into a trap, not on his birthday that he didn't even _know_ was his birthday. They had a party planned! There was going to be cake! "_Move_, damn you," she muttered, her mind too cluttered with each of his gestures, the slightest lift of his eyebrow, the trail of his fingers, and if she'd lost them all—

A strangle snuffling sound, a glint of light off white hair—Hawke breathed again. "Fenris?"

"Here," he said, in the voice she knew, rough with sleep, disoriented but prepared to serve, to kiss or kill at a moment's notice. "Hawke—"

"Fenris," she said, soft, her hands wrapped around the bars of her cage without her really realizing how they'd gotten there. "I'm here, Fenris."

"Hawke," he said, and she heard her relief echoed before a hiss of pain cut him short. "My—"

"Hush," Anders said, "someone's coming."

She turned her head, and the far-away light was indeed coming closer; around the corner came the unmarked templar and two other fighters carrying torches, clearly escorting a mage wearing Tevinter robes. She heard Fenris hiss and climbed to her feet, trying to ignore his arm lying on the ground behind her, trying not to watch his now-illuminated form as he gripped the cage bars and struggled to pull himself up. Her simultaneous ache and anger crept along the edges of her vision; she blinked it away, took a deep breath and said, as the mage stopped before her cage, "I demand you release us at once."

The mage laughed. "You did say she had spirit," he commented to the templar, his gaze harder, inspecting her. "I would expect no less from the—Champion of Kirkwall, is it? Yes," he said, tilting his head, "yes, she'll do nicely.

"And another mage? This _is_ quite the catch," he said, turning to Anders, who stayed in a crumpled mass of robes of feathers—but the light caught the burning hatred in his eyes, and Hawke worried that he might do something rash. Justice never appreciated seeing other mages confirming everyone's worst fears, undoing all his hard work (Justice _was_ everyone's worst fear, but that was a different problem).

"What are we going to do nicely?" she asked, hoping to distract them. "Frankly, the way we've been treated, I don't feel like being nice at all."

The mage smiled, if an expression so cruel could be called such. "Oh, you will," he said, stepping closer, reaching a finger through the bars to poke at her. She grabbed for it, but he withdrew, looking less pleased. "Once you're broken, we'll sell you to some deserving magister, where you'll live out your days in comfortable servitude. Isn't that how it goes?" he said, and Hawke balled her hands into fists as he turned his gaze upon Fenris—but her fist was too big to fit through the bars, she had to stick her hand through and _then_ make a fist, and he'd already moved out of range.

He looked distinctly less pleased as he inspected Fenris. "Where," he said finally, "is his arm?"

"Here," Hawke said, "and if you want it you'll have to kill me first."

"_Hawke_," Fenris said, exasperated, pained, worried—and she trembled with the effort of forcing herself not to return the concern, because if he was feeling weak enough to display such—in front of _Tevinter_—he was weak indeed, and she would do him no favors in letting them know.

The mage, however, seemed more intent on glaring at the templar and his companions. "He was _supposed_ to be intact!"

"He still has his head," said one of the companions, as though she'd been repeating herself for some time.

"Keep this up and you will lose yours," the mage said, looking back to the poorly-cauterized stump. He stayed well out of reach; someone must have warned him about Fenris's abilities. A pity.

"You're just going to take that?" Hawke said to the fighters. "From a _mage_?"

A humorless smile crossed the mage's face. "Ah, you'd be surprised what they'll do for a more…_regular_ supply of lyrium. Now," he said, in the brisk manner of Orana when tasking Sandal to fetch vegetables from the garden, "to the breaking."

"This one looks broken already," said the third fighter, kicking the bars of Anders's cage.

Hawke winced; no one ever _told_ Anders, exactly, that he'd been getting dangerously thin and spending too much time obsessing over mage rights and not enough on making sure he'd live to see them achieved. If it kept him from further harm, though…"Oh, he is," she said. "Very broken. Definitely doesn't need any more breaking."

She couldn't see the helmeted templars' reactions, but the mage lifted an eyebrow at her. "Too much magic, not enough discipline?" he asked.

Anders's eyes went blue. "Unfortunately," she said hurriedly. "I'm afraid that's the only trick he has left in him."

This had the opposite effect. The mage frowned. "He shouldn't have _any_ trick left in him," he said slowly, and Hawke realized she _did_ feel, just a touch, the Veil fluttering against her consciousness. Not enough for more than a mind blast, and once they woke up from it they'd be even angrier. But if she had _time_…

She scrambled for a distraction. "So how long have you been running this little operation?" she asked. "Is this where all the mages have been disappearing to?"

The mage wasn't buying it. "I think," he said, "it is time for you to stop talking."

"Touch her and I'll kill you," Fenris croaked.

Hawke couldn't help herself; she sent him the full force of a glare, _I've been trying to keep them from noticing you, idiot_, but he didn't match her anger, only her determination. "If anyone's going to be killing anyone, it's me," she said.

"You will not touch her," Fenris stated.

"And you'll stop us?" the mage said.

"I really don't appreciate you trying to make jokes," Hawke said.

"Yes," he said, his gaze surprisingly clear for a one-armed man.

"You're not _nearly_ as funny as I am."

"On the contrary," the mage said, "this is quite entertaining. But I'm afraid it's taking far too much of my time, and so, if you will…?"

He gestured to the head templar, who drew his sword and stepped towards Fenris. Hawke reached for the mana inside her—not enough, not _nearly_ enough, but if she could distract him, it was worth touching her hand to her forehead, calling the force of her desire for Fenris to be _left alone_, willing them to be far, far away.

All of them staggered, torches falling to the floor, and it was enough for Fenris to phase through the bars of his cell—_not_ what she'd had in mind, but perhaps he could at least run—or he could slide the third templar's sword from its sheath and swing it clumsily into the man's head, stumbling as his own strength threw him off-balance.

The templars couldn't kill him. She was going to do it herself.

"Enough," the mage panted, pushing to his feet, "of this. If you _please_—"

The head templar drew his sword, clumsy himself, but though Fenris managed to block his first blow the force of it sent him stumbling back against the bars of his cage. Hawke clenched her teeth, reaching deep into herself as Fenris parried again and a third time, closing her eyes against his pale, sweating skin as she poured fury into the dropped torches. The templar Fenris had struck yelped as his feet suddenly found themselves in a blaze, but the mage barely noticed his burning robes, throwing out a hand to catch Fenris in a cage of light. His bare feet lifted off the ground as the beams pulsed up and down, crushing him in a manner Hawke knew all too well.

"Stop it," she said, then louder, "_stop it_."

The mage glared at her. "You'd like that, would you? Perhaps you ought to stop first and consider your own actions." He nodded to the head templar, who placed the flat of his blade against Fenris's neck and _again_ she heard him scream as the lyrium flared, the glow spreading up the sword, lighting the templar from within. She could _taste_ the power in the air, inhaled deeply, trying—hoping—but even as she gathered the scraps the light began to fail and Fenris's scream changed, no longer simply agonized but drawing on something deeper—

"Don't kill him," the mage said sharply, and the templar reluctantly removed his sword, letting Fenris crumple in a heap upon the ground. The female templar stepped forward to unlock the cage, and Hawke watched, quietly seething, as they half-dragged, half-kicked him back into the cell. She felt mana trickling into the puddle she'd made of her reserves, but until she had enough to—what had Isabela said? Rain fire and ice?—she was only going to succeed in angering them until they—

The mage stepped back and the head templar swept his sword out towards her and Anders, and the fiery force of his suppression would have knocked her to her knees had she not been clinging to the cell bars. The puddle of mana evaporated as though it had never been; Anders stiffened, his eyes flashing, his limbs jerking once.

"I will leave you to reflect on these experiences," the mage said, waving a hand to douse the flames still licking at his robes, leaving them in near-darkness once again. "When I return I expect you will have thought better of your little rebellion."

Hawke tightened her grip on the bars and listened until the chink of the templars' armor no longer even echoed, then whispered, "Fenris?"

"Here," he said, his voice raw, and again she was—_furious_, with him for being so stupid, with herself for being the _reason_ he was being so stupid, with some stupid Tevinter mage coming and threatening him with slavery _again_, when he'd been free for so long, with—

"Anders?" she said, though he was hardly a fair target either, and as the seconds passed without his response her anger tempered itself with worry. "Anders, can you hear me?"

"Y—yes," he said, stuttering as though he wasn't quite sure how to speak. It was enough; her frustration returned in full force.

"If I had mana, you must have had some too," she said. "Why the hell didn't you help?"

"I—"

"I know you don't like each other, but I thought we'd gotten over some of that—"

"I d-d-didn't—"

"—and we're all in this together, and you could have done _something_—"

"Hawke," Fenris croaked. "Hush."

"He's missing an arm," Anders said. "Sorry. Justice doesn't take well to—"

"I don't _care_ what Justice—"

"Give him his arm," Anders said.

Hawke stared suspiciously at his suddenly active shadow. "So you can watch him hit himself with it?"

"No."

"Because that's not very funny."

"Hawke," Fenris said, and at the deep note of _suffering_ in his voice, suffering she'd tried to ease, she fell quiet. The enormity of his loss, its immediate dimensions lying on the ground beside her, its immeasurable effects stretching into their future, hung in the air, interrupted only by the rustling of Anders's robes.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Give him his arm," Anders said again. There was a clink, and a sort of continuous bumping noise, culminating in a clunk of something-against-metal.

"What's this?" Fenris said.

"A potion. Hawke, please."

She stared at moment more in Anders's direction, then sighed and went about picking up Fenris's arm, hefting it by the elbow—surprisingly heavy, but not yet stiff. "If I feed it through the bars," she said, wincing, "can you reach it?"

"I can try," he said, and they spent the next several minutes trying to accomplish the task, trying _not_ to think about the task at—she refused to let herself finish the thought. Carefully, she pushed the arm through the gap in the bars, reaching out to straighten it for as long as she could, trying not to think of all the times she'd kissed up and down the lines of lyrium in the lukewarm skin. The fingers kept tangling up with each other, and his wrist was surprisingly floppy, and she patiently splayed them out, reminding herself that he still had another hand to hold. She could barely make out the shadow of him reaching for her—and how she longed to take that hand, rather than give him his one, and if Anders was playing a cruel joke she would kill _him_ first, and then the mage, and then the templars, and possibly still Fenris if he didn't stay out of her way—and eventually she was reduced to lying on her belly, arm stretched out, concentrating solely on nudging the non-cauterized, still-oozing stumpy end as far as she could, until finally Fenris said, "Thank you, Hawke."

She pulled her arm back into her cell, trying to wipe the sticky blood-and-dirt mixture off on her already-ruined robes with little success. "All right, I gave him his arm," she said, her festering rage seeping into her voice. "Now what?"

Anders sighed. "Uncork the potion," he said, "then lie down, and make sure it's near at hand—sorry—and try to line up the arm as best as you can, how it ought to go, and then drink it."

"And what's that going to do?" Hawke said, because of course it was impossible—

"It _should_," Anders said, as they listened to Fenris scooting around in the dirt, "reattach his arm. Happy birthday."

Of all times—but years of her father's tutelage came rushing to her, and she started to open her mouth to say _it can't be done_, but suddenly Fenris was glowing again—weak, but steady, the dirt beneath him turned to silver sand, and in the light she could see the impossible, skin and muscle knitting together, the silver lyrium-light slowly catching fire along the arm as the channels realigned, disappearing beneath his bracers, surfacing in his fingers as they twitched with new life. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding as Fenris slowly sat up, a bright fierce whiteness sliding up and down his arm as he rotating his hand this way and that; as the potion finished its work, the glow faded away, lighting the wonder on his face before the shadows fell again.

"Oh good," Anders said into the stunned silence. "That one _does_ work. I'll have to make a note of it."

"How?" Hawke said.

"Well, the lyrium helped immensely, I'm sure," Anders said, "but if I can make a poultice to close a torn jugular—speaking of, Hawke, I saw that cut on your neck, take this just in case—" another clunk of glass-on-metal, this time on her bars, and she groped around until she found the bottle "—I thought I'd be able to brew a potion to reattach a lost limb."

"You have my thanks," Fenris said, his voice still hoarse.

"You're welcome," Anders said, tone equally neutral, and Hawke basked in their almost-cordiality as she smeared the smelly poultice on her neck.

And then a thought occurred to her. "Are you saying you have potions for specific injuries?"

"Well," Anders said, "when I was traveling with the Warden, I noticed the same problems cropping up, and it was just _easier_ to have something on hand for when someone would crack their skull or crush their arm or start coughing blood."

"Why haven't you mentioned this before?"

"I don't need them as much with you lot," Anders said. "I've been experimenting, though, just in case."

"On your patients?" Fenris asked, with the frosty tone he usually reserved for the abomination returned in full.

"Very rarely," he said, equally hard. "When someone comes to me in distress I do whatever I can to help them."

"So," Hawke said, trying to be casual, "what sort of things do you treat now?"

There was a pause, full of clinking glasses, and finally Anders said, "I have one to re-grow fingernails, one for broken bones of course, and this one corrects amnesia, and this one—after Karl I thought I'd see what I could do for—Tranquility. Doesn't work so well, but if the ritual's been botched it can help. Oh, and this one reverses aphrodisiacs that won't wear off, and _this _one—" Hawke caught the glint of torchlight off a tiny vial as he held it up "—reverses death, I _think_, but I'd rather not try it out all the same."

"So what you're saying," Hawke said, "is that—"

"You are far too careless about your injuries," Fenris said, but she ignored him.

"—no matter what torture they try to inflict on us, you've got a cure?"

She heard a doubled intake of breath, chose not to understand why they both sighed, one hesitant, the other furious. It was time for a little payback, anyway. "Hawke—"

"I…suppose…"

She smiled in the dark, and even though they couldn't see her they both sighed again. "Brilliant."

* * *

The two junior templars returned just as Hawke felt her mana again. Fenris's lyrium had made the anti-magic effects last much longer than normal, and of course the templars immediately suppressed her again—Anders froze, apparently unable to function without Justice. Worrisome, but he would be fine. And Fenris would be safe. She could barely contain her glee as the man said to the woman, "Which one are we supposed to take first?"

"Me," Hawke said.

Their helmeted heads turned to her, and so she smiled brightly at them, hoping to look as un-broken as possible. "Are we supposed to take her?" the man said.

"I thought we were supposed to take the elf," the woman said. "Something about lyrium."

"Oh no," Hawke said. "You're supposed to be breaking us. The other mage is broken, and you cut off the elf's arm," and the woman's shoulders slumped, "but I'm fine. You should definitely take me."

They looked at each other. "She _is_ cheerful," the man said, lifting his torch to look at her more closely.

"Yes, but she had that head injury—"

"I just ran into a doorframe!" she said, and though Fenris had, after much cajoling, agreed to go along with the plan, she still heard him give a peculiarly aggravated sigh, the one meant just for her. "I'm fine, really. So you should take me with you."

The man turned his head back to the woman, who shook her head impatiently. "She's just trying to keep the elf safe," she said.

"I don't care what happens to him!" Hawke said desperately. Cheerfully.

"Right," the woman said, taking the man's torch and shining it into Fenris's cage. He lay curled on his right side, lifted his left hand to his forehead as he squinted against the light. "Shackles?"

"Here," the man said, lifting a pair of wrist cuffs. "But if he's missing an arm—"

"Next time I'll just cut off his head and be done with it," the woman said, trading the torch for the wrist cuffs. "Elf. Come here."

"You really don't want to do this," Hawke warned as Fenris glanced at her.

"Quiet," the woman snapped, and so Hawke nodded to Fenris, and he stood and came to the bars, inches away from his captors.

The templars regarded him. "Something's different," the man said finally.

"Yes," Fenris said.

"How—" the woman started.

The man snapped his fingers, or at least tried as best as he could with gauntlets on. "His arm!"

"Indeed," Fenris said.

"I told you," Hawke said.

"How—"

"The boss'll love this," the man said. "And now the shackles will work!"

"Yes," Fenris said. "What a pity you'll never have a chance to use them."

The woman caught the warning, skipped backwards as he reached through the bars, his hand glowing—

The man suddenly dropped to his knees with a gurgle, blood gushing from the side of his neck, and Fenris stopped with his hand a heartbeat away from his chest. The woman whirled around, only to take an arrow through her eye slit.

"Ha!" said a blessedly familiar voice. "That's two for me."

"Nay," said another voice, growing louder by the second, "the kill was mine."

"Nice try, Choir Boy, but we all know only Bianca could make that shot."

"While I wouldn't dream of besmirching the lady's good name, the fletching will prove that arrow belongs to me."

"Will you two quit arguing?" Aveline appeared around the corner, sword shining with blood. "We have to find—"

Isabela suddenly appeared standing over the dead templars' bodies. "They're in here!" she announced.

"I can see that, thank you," Aveline said, but her relieved smile tempered her words.

"Isabela!" Hawke said. "Where have you been?"

"Well," the pirate said, coming over and picking the lock on Hawke's cage, "I was helping Fenris until I saw him get his arm cut off—_nice_ trick, by the way—and then I certainly wasn't going to be captured with the rest of you."

"Certainly," Hawke agreed as the door swung open, stepping through and slinging her arm around Isabela's shoulder. "So what, you followed us here and then went for help?"

"Everyone was in the same place. Ex_treme_ly convenient," she said, the quick squeeze of her side-hug the only indication that she'd been worried.

"His arm _looks_ okay," said Varric as he and Sebastian came in the room. "Rivaini, I think you were exaggerating."

"She was not," Fenris said, and Isabela slipped away from Hawke to pick his lock as Varric went to Anders.

"It wasn't good," Hawke said, only to be bowled over by a happily barking mass of bloody fur. "You brought—yes, good boy, _good_ boy—the dog?"

"Well, he was _so _worried—" Aveline started, as Dog jumped off Hawke's stomach in order to tackle an uncaged Fenris.

"Are they all all right?" Merrill said, clapping her bloodied hands together as Hawke climbed to her feet and Fenris used both hands to give the mabari the scratching he deserved. "Oh good! Being dead would be a terrible way to celebrate a birthday."

"Why," Fenris asked around Dog's enthusiastic licking, "all this talk of birthdays?"

Everyone froze and looked guiltily at Hawke, except Anders. "Hawke decided today is your birthday," the apostate said, brushing the feathers on his robe. "I got you an arm."

Fenris frowned and looked at Hawke, who shrugged and held her hands wide, her smile more relieved than happy. "Surprise!" she said.

"Why?" he said, and the question was so heartbreakingly _Fenris_ that she could only stare at him adoringly for a moment longer than everyone else in the room was comfortable with.

Varric coughed. "She was going to surprise you with a party."

"Right! And now it won't be a surprise, but we can still celebrate," she said.

"Hawke—" Aveline said.

"Unless there's still work to be done here?" she asked.

Sebastian scratched the back of his neck. "Ah. No."

"They're all dead," Merrill said cheerfully, Dog barking in agreement.

"That's really what took so long," Varric added.

"Afraid we took care of everything," Isabela said. "_Huge_ slaving ring destroyed from the inside out."

"Thanks to you," Aveline said.

"Happy birthday?" Fenris said slowly.

Hawke beamed at him—at all of them, standing in the flickering torchlight, bloodied and bruised and _together_ and whole and, come to think of it, probably hungry. "Happy birthday," she said. "Now let's go home."


	3. Chapter 3

The underground complex from which the slaving ring had operated wasn't particularly large, but with having to step over all the dead bodies it took them some time to re-emerge in Darktown. One by one they climbed a ladder and out of a trapdoor, only to discover Donnic and a patrol of guardsmen waiting for them.

"We've _talked_ about this," Aveline said.

Hawke looked behind her as the trapdoor closed behind Dog, whose ability to climb ladders was something she only knew through results, not witness. "I could have sworn that door led to the sewers."

Anders shook his head at her as Donnic replied, "The safety of the Champion of Kirkwall and the Guard Captain is not a _personal_ matter, ma'am. The Knight-Commander knows of our suspicions and authorized our movement."

"Well, you can go tell her it's been taken care of," Aveline said.

"No he can't," Hawke said. "The party?"

Aveline sighed. "Would one of you mind—?"

One of the guardsmen took off to the Gallows, and so Aveline dismissed the others while Donnic fell in with their group. The walk back to Hightown was long, but full of everyone's chatter, Merrill and Varric and Isabela illustrating the battle while Hawke dropped back to walk by Fenris. He half-smiled at her, and as they walked their fingers brushed, a constant reminder of what was almost lost—of the chances they'd been given, each more unbelievable and precious than the last. And yet for all the weight of destiny, the pressure of narrow escapes, she felt remarkably free, her spirits uplifted, her shoulders unburdened—

"My pack!" she said, cutting off Merrill's loving description of Dog shaking a warrior like a rag doll. "Did someone grab my pack?"

"Yes," Isabela said. "I carried that blasted thing all the way back to your house, you know. What on _earth_ do have in there?"

"I'd like to know as well," Fenris said, but Hawke took his hand and squeezed it and he flushed.

"Magic's back," Anders announced loudly, followed by an immediate wave of healing magic.

"If only it could do something about all this blood," Hawke muttered, but the ache in her head that she'd been ignoring eased, and she was grateful for it.

They entered Lowtown, the Hanged Man loud and boisterous, the merchants' stands covered for the night—"No chance to buy a last-minute present," Hawke warned, and the others laughed while Fenris frowned again—and the Hightown market was equally deserted. And then they were around the corner, and the cheerful magelight illuminated the Amell crest, and then they were in the foyer, shaking crusted bloody dirt off their boots (or from between their toes, in Merrill's case), the fire in the next room—no, there _was_ no fire in the next room—

"Mistress!" Orana said, her face streaked with—soot?, rushing from the hall. "Oh Mistress, thank the Maker you're here, the tree fell—"

"Tree?" Hawke said.

"I was setting up a _vhenadahl_," Merrill said, "all strung with lights and candles—"

"A _tree_?" Hawke said. "In my _house_?"

"—and knocked down the chandelier and caught fire and the twinkling lights exploded and now the dining table has a great smoking hole in it where the cake used to be, and the fire rescue squad scared Sandal with all the shouting and splashing water everywhere and now he's hiding in the chimney, and there's soot everywhere and the whole house smells like smoke and the family crest has cinders in it, and all the rugs are soggy and the wallpaper's been permanently ruined." She paused for breath. "Oh, and dinner's cold."

"The cake's gone?" Donnic said, his small voice the only sound in the otherwise silent foyer.

"A crater, I'm afraid," Orana said.

"_So_ sorry about my boy," Bodahn said, wiping sawdust on his soot-streaked apron. "I've just about got the table fixed, thank goodness for all that wood—" Merrill made a squeaking noise "—but it's going to be some time before we can get the fire lit, I'm afraid."

"Enchantment!" echoed emphatically from the stone of the fireplace, and Bodahn shrugged in apology.

Hawke took a deep breath, regretted it as soon as she smelled the smoke, wished she'd inherited her mother's sense of decorating—but she had Orana, and she had her friends, and now that Aveline was all domestic surely she'd have some ideas, and she couldn't let Fenris know his birthday was on the verge of being ruined _again_. And really, a house fire paled in comparison to dismemberment. They would be fine. "How's the upstairs?" she said finally.

Bodahn and Orana looked at each other. "Should be fine," the dwarf said.

"The ceiling might be a bit singed," Orana added, wringing her hands. "And the floor's wet, but—"

"It will be _fine_," Hawke said. "Shall we?"

They traipsed across the hall, studiously ignoring the signs of disaster ("It's _squishy_," Merrill said of the floor), and really when one had been through as many magical fires as they had it didn't take long to ignore the lingering stench of burnt tree. Hawke insisted they leave their now-muddied bloody boots at the foot of the stairs, but the upstairs landing was mercifully intact. With Aveline and Donnic's help they carried the new table to the landing, setting it close to the window, and Merrill immediately set about decorating with ivy and more twinkling lights ("_No_ candles," Hawke said firmly). It was a tight fit, but with the door to her room open and its fire crackling in the background, she could mostly ignore the ruin that was half the first floor of her house.

"You don't have to do this," Fenris said finally, as Orana started sending up plates of food for Hawke and Merrill to set over carefully controlled fires.

"Yes we do," she said, "it's your birthday. Now sit." He reluctantly took the head of the table, and Hawke looked up from her task for a moment to count heads. Aveline and Donnic, Isabela and Varric, Sebastian emerging with Mother's old harpsichord—gracious, she'd forgotten they had one, no wonder he'd been asking about tuning earlier in the week—but someone was…

"Where's Anders?" she asked, passing a plate over to a still-morose Donnic.

Isabela shrugged. "Maybe he's had enough excitement for the day."

She felt a pang of disappointment; they'd _almost_ been getting along, and she didn't want her old friend to feel alienated from their celebrations, though of course if he chose to alienate himself that was his choice, and Fenris probably wouldn't miss him and it _was_ his birthday. But it was still rude to leave—

"_Maker_," Donnic breathed, and Hawke turned to see Bodahn and Orana carefully carrying a…a _thing_, and the thing smelled _amazing_, and behind it was Anders, his arms crossed, shoulders hunched.

Fenris rose from his chair to help them slide the was that _chocolate_ and was that ginger she smelled? onto the table, then crossed his arms and looked at it. "What is it?"

"A cake," Anders said, avoiding everyone's gaze.

"What for?" Fenris asked.

"Oh, wait, I have the candles!" Merrill said, abandoning a particularly intricate ivy curling in order to start jamming tiny candles enthusiastically into spare spots of cake—had he taken chocolate? and sculpted it into tiny feathers and leaves?

"Candles?"

"I said no candles," Hawke said helplessly.

"Isabela said we'd need about thirty," Merrill said.

"Just a guess," Isabela said with a wink.

"_I'll_ light them," Anders said, lunging forward with a protectiveness that betrayed his investment. Merrill skipped away, clapping, as he very carefully lit each one, then stepped away and said, "Hurry up, they'll melt the chocolate."

"What exactly are we—"

The harpsichord plinked arpeggios, and everyone looked over to Sebastian. "We _are_ going to sing, are we not?"

And sing they did, and when the song was over Hawke whispered instructions into the shell-shocked Fenris's ear, and he, without much sign that he knew what he was doing, leaned over and blew out the candles in one great gust of breath to great applause. He cut the first slice himself, and Hawke noticed that Anders watched him take the first bite with an expression eerily similar to the one he wore when asking someone to read the latest draft of his manifesto.

"Mm," Fenris said, closing his eyes, his expression eerily similar to the one he wore when Hawke stroked his ears. "Good."

"Wouldn't be a birthday without cake," Anders said. "Or so my mother said."

Hawke couldn't contain herself any longer; she threw her arms around both their necks, pulling them in for a hug and knocked their heads together. Fenris, off-balance now due to his enthusiastic lover, lost control of his plate, but Aveline and Donnic, ever the dutiful guardsmen, rescued the slice of cake before it hit the ground.

"You're welcome," Anders said, voice strained.

"Hawke," Fenris said, and she released Anders in order to kiss her favorite elf—

"Oh," she said, breaking it off, "that _is_ good."

"I told you so," Aveline said.

"As off-putting as that was," Varric said, looking as though it was a particular strain to be so diplomatic, "can we eat now?"

And eat they did; between the reheated dinner and the _cake_, Hawke wasn't quite sure she'd be able to move afterwards. She was saved by the appearance of gifts, and though it took a moment for Fenris to understand that he was meant to unwrap them in front of everyone (or more likely, she suspected, to understand that all of them were for _him_), soon there was a pile of paper on her floor and a veritable haul in front of him. Aveline and Donnic got him a nice set of Diamondback cards—"None of the cards are bent, so you can't cheat," Donnic said—and Varric gave him a handsomely bound book of elven stories "by a friend." Merrill produced her present from behind her back, setting it atop Fenris's head before he could protest.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A crown of asters. It won't ever wilt."

Fenris looked as though he was struggling to find gratitude amidst his other feelings. "Er—"

"You and Hawke seem so happy," she said. "I thought it'd be a nice reminder."

"They're lovely," Hawke said, stifling her giggles. The white flowers were adorably incongruous over his dark brow, and she made a mental note to find a reason to call him her prince of flowers at some point in the future.

"Well _I_ bought him booze," Isabela said, her bare feet crossed on the table, one of Fenris's new bottles of brandy curiously in her hand.

Sebastian's gift was a delicate piece of parchment inscribed with lines from the Chant—"Benedictions," he said, and Fenris nodded—sealed in a small box on a chain. "So you can carry it with you," he said.

Hawke leapt to her feet, remembering. "Just a moment," she said, and then she ran back to her room, where Isabela had helpfully deposited her bloodied bag on the clean bedspread—_honestly_—but she grabbed it and ran back out, discovering Dog's head on Fenris's knee.

"He got me a bone," Fenris said, gingerly holding up what appeared to possibly be a human femur covered in layers of slobber.

"It's probably a magister's bone, isn't it?" Hawke cooed, scratching Dog's head as she deposited her pack on the floor next to him. "Who's a smart puppy?"

"Er," Fenris said.

"It's in the pack," she said, and so Fenris gingerly set the bone on the ground—where Dog happily scooped it up and started gnawing on it again—and opened his gift under Hawke's expectant gaze.

"A whetstone?" he said, his voice a bit strained as he lifted the large block of rock onto the table, which creaked in protest. "You've been carrying this around with you?"

"Yes," Hawke said. "So you can stop carrying the one that's been hanging around your neck."

Fenris raised his eyebrows, and she smirked at him; he looked around the group and his expression softened, then closed; he swallowed, and under the table his hand reached for Hawke's leg, touching it even as she leaned into his chair, reassuring him. "Thank you all," he said gruffly.

"Happy birthday," Aveline said.

"Yeah, that," Isabela said, but she had the same fond smile.

"Is this a party or isn't it?" Varric said, looking suspiciously misty-eyed. "Where's the music, Choir Boy?"

"Oh, yes," Isabela said, curling around Sebastian. "I've got ten silvers riding on what comes out of your mouth, so this had better be good."

Sebastian, who may or may not have eaten his cake at the harpsichord while providing musical entertainment with his toes, delicately wiped his fingers on his napkin and launched into the raunchiest song Hawke had ever heard—and she'd listened to Isabela call requests at the Hanged Man on more than one occasion—something about a ball in Kirkwall and four and twenty prostitutes, and by the end of it Sebastian's face looked as though it might explode from all the blushing and Isabela was tearfully handing Varric his coin.

"I told you he had it in him," the dwarf said, counting, as Merrill asked for a song with dancing, "but not dancing like that last song," she said, and Sebastian obligingly started a reel about a bonnie lass and the soldier who loved her. Donnic tugged Aveline to her feet, and together they stumbled through the steps, Aveline's cheeks flushed, laughing as they bumped into Isabela and Merrill in the tiny space. Even Anders offered a hand to Orana, who shyly accepted.

Hawke leaned her head against Fenris's and said, "Looks like fun."

"To you," he retorted.

"You've _got _to dance," Isabela said, dragging him out from under Hawke's protection, and though he protested he was, of course, as graceful on the dance floor as on the battlefield. Hawke proved less so, but she fancied that she more than made up for it with enthusiasm, and Merrill at least agreed. The hours passed as they danced and drank and broke in the Diamondback deck, and Varric read one of the stories from the elf book ("You _have to do the voices_," Hawke insisted, a bit tipsy, and he a bit more than tipsily obliged). Sebastian proved an excellent master of music; as the evening wore towards its close, he left off the reels and turned to softer songs, their melodies looser.

"Well, I'm out," she announced, dropping her cards and turning to look wistfully at Aveline and Donnic swaying with the music.

"More for me," said Varric, gathering her coins as Merrill yawned and Isabela threw her own cards to the table in disgust.

She looked back to see Fenris looking at her, and abruptly he offered her his hand. "One last dance?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"It's my birthday," he said, and she grinned and took his hand, following him until there was space enough for him to put his arm around her waist, for her to step close and rest her head on his shoulder.

"You're finally getting into the spirit of the day," she murmured, half-listening as Sebastian tickled the harpsichord's keys and sang of falling in love, completely.

"Thanks to you," he answered, and for a little while they turned slowly, his arm firm and reassuring against her back, their free fingers entwined. She felt the warm give of his skin against her cheek, the tickling of his hair on her nose, the quiet rise and fall of his chest; she closed her eyes, the beat of his heart a steady rhythm against the harpsichord's wandering song. The last notes trailed off, unresolved, still searching; Hawke sighed, content with where she'd ended.

"You've been a lovely audience," Sebastian said, "but I'm afraid that's all for the evening."

Fenris eased his grip, and Hawke reluctantly pulled away. "Thank you, Sebastian," she said. "I don't know when someone last played that thing."

The prince crossed to them and sketched a bow. "My gift to you," he said. "Good night. Happy birthday."

Fenris nodded back, and they watched him descend the stairs, wincing at the coldness of the wet rugs. Ah, well, she'd fix it in the morning. "We're off as well," Aveline said, Donnic's arm around her waist. "Happy birthday, Fenris. Glad you're safe."

"Wicked Grace next week?" Donnic asked, shaking Fenris's hand as the elf assented. Hawke met Aveline's eyes and they shared a fondly exasperated smile, and then they were also gone down the stairs. Anders left without saying goodbye, but Merrill hugged them both, to Fenris's mild discomfort. Isabela slinked out with many a wink and nudge about the birthday boy, and finally Varric finished gathering his winnings into his various pockets.

"A night for the books?" Hawke asked as he made his way to the stairs.

Varric paused and looked back at her. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe just to be remembered, instead. Happy birthday, elf."

"Thank you," Fenris said, and they watched as Varric left, encountering on his way a soot-covered Sandal offering to help carry Bianca. Hawke couldn't quite make out Varric's expression, but the way in which he pressed himself against the wall and edged his way out made her chuckle.

"Well," she said, tangling her fingers with Fenris's, "the guests have all gone home."

"Indeed," he said, not resisting the gentle tug she gave as she started towards her bedroom. She looked at him as they walked, running her eyes over the lyrium on his chin, down his neck, and a thought occurred to her, but now really wasn't the—"Careful," he said, pulling her close before she could walk into another doorframe.

"I am careful," she retorted, a bald-faced lie if she'd ever told one. "I was just…wondering."

"Yes?" he asked, closing the door to the bedroom behind them.

She hesitated, but she _was_ curious. "When you phased through the cell bars, earlier today."

"Yes."

"Have you…always been able to do that?"

His brow furrowed, and she stepped closer and toyed with the neck of his armor, hoping to distract him. "I suppose," he said finally. "I haven't tried it because I knew the effort involved would be tiring, but I was—already tired."

"Did you ever try it in Tevinter?" She regretted the question as soon as she'd asked it. "I'm sorry, it's your birthday, don't—"

He placed a finger over her lips, brow still furrowed. "No," he said finally, and she kissed his finger, tilted her head as he slid his hand across her cheek. "It would never have occurred to me. I must thank you for…broadening my horizons."

She laughed into his hand, returned the gesture. "You're welcome," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "So, horizons broadened, slavers stopped, and parties partied, not bad for a day's work." She smiled up at him and asked, "Good birthday?"

"I don't have any to compare it to," he said, "but…yes. Yes," he said, his eyes soft in that way that made her want to wrap herself around him, an unspoken promise to cherish his trust. "Hawke…"

"Yes, Fenris?" she said, catching the whiff of brandy on his breath, his low voice curling her toes.

He hesitated, his eyes searching her as she waited expectantly, and finally said, "It's…a good whetstone."

"It ought to be," she murmured, stepping until her toes curled against his, waiting for his arms to circle around her. "Cost enough."

"Hawke," he said helplessly, even as his arms did exactly as she hoped, his fingers pressing against her waist.

"Yes, Fenris?" she said, brushing his jaw with a kiss.

He pulled his head back, met her gaze, then closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers. "Thank you," he said, his voice low and rough with honesty.

She exhaled, long and slow and content, and said, "Happy birthday, Fenris. I'm glad you were born."

His breath caught, and she tightened her arms around his shoulders, waiting for him to ride out the revelation, promising to be there when he was done. "As am I," he said, pulling her closer, nudging her head up with his nose, moving his lips across her cheek, meeting hers for a homecoming kiss. "As am I."

The End


End file.
